Maelzel's Chess-Player

Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general

attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has

been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think.

Yet the question of its modus operandi is still undetermined.

Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as

decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical

genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative

understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a

pure machine, unconnected with human agency in its movements,

and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of

the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were

they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it

would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any

similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have

been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster’s Letters on

Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among

these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly,

the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV

when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced,

into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table

was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and

drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down,

a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on

the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M.

Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his

whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the

edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone

as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to

the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its

former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In

this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair

of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and

opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to

her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps,

closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped

his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original

position.

The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy

the following account of it from the Letters before mentioned

of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the

Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.

“One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen,

Is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of

answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a

magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand

in one hand, and a book in the other A number of questions, ready

prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator

takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer,

and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer

shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician

then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with

his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep thought, he lifts

it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the

proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the

wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an

appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the

magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to

return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all

containing different questions, to which the magician returns the

most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin

plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each

other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each

side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the

drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the

magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes

his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is

returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer

together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the

machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,

during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The

inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions

acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to

the questions which they contained, were extremely simple.”

The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was _of _the

size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal

that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says

Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures, it ate and

drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head

and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled

the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the

sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical

structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in

the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its

wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and

curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper

movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck

stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.

{*1}

But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the

calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an

engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical

and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the

exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its

power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a

machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually

print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the

slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps,

be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is

altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By

no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we

assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the

Chess-Player is a _pure machine, _and performs its operations

without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical

calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.

Certain _data _being given, certain results necessarily and

inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing,

and are influenced by nothing but the _data _originally given.

And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its

final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to

no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case,

we can without difficulty conceive the _possibility _of so

arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance

with the _data _of the question to be solved, it should continue

its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards

the required solution, since these movements, however complex,

are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate.

But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him

there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess

necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular

disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate

their disposition at a different period. Let us place the _first

move _in a game of chess, in juxta-position with the _data _of an

algebraical question, and their great difference will be

immediately perceived. From the latter—from the _data—_the second

step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It

is modelled by the _data. _It must be _thus _and not otherwise.

But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second

move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it

proceeds towards solution, the _certainty _of its operations

remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a

consequence of the _data, _the third step is equally a

consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of

the fourth, and so on, _and not possibly otherwise, _to the end.

But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the

_uncertainty _of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,

_no _step is certain. Different spectators of the game would

advise different moves. All is then dependent upon the variable

judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be

granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in

themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and

disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is

then no analogy whatever between the operations of the

Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr.

Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a _pure machine _we

must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the

most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original

projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring

it to be a “very ordinary piece of mechanism—a _bagatelle _whose

effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the

conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for

promoting the illusion.” But it is needless to dwell upon this

point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton

are regulated by _mind, _and by nothing else. Indeed this matter

is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, _a priori. _The

only question then is of the _manner _in which human agency is

brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as

well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player

for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an

opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition.

The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron

Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards

disposed of it, together with the secret of its operations, to

its present possessor. {2*} Soon after its completion it was

exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental

cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel.

Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the United

States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by

its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of

all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut on

this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen

by the citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,

however, should lie more at length upon the box, a chess-board

should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen while

the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in

the costume of the player since it came into the possession of

Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image

of automaton}

At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or

folding doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within

about twelve feet of the nearest of the spectators, between whom

and it (the machine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen

habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large

box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The

exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of

the room, suffer it to remain altogether on any designated spot,

or even shift its location repeatedly during the progress of a

game. The bottom of the box is elevated considerably above the

floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it

moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the

Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on

which the figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the

top of this latter is a chess-board, also permanently affixed.

The right arm of the Chess-Player is extended at full length

before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in an

apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back

of the hand is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches

square. The left arm of the figure is bent at the elbow, and in

the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery conceals the back of the

Turk, and falls partially over the front of both shoulders. To

judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into

five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two

drawers occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the

cupboards. The foregoing observations apply to the appearance of

the Automaton upon its first introduction into the presence of

the spectators.

Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their

view the mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch

of keys he unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut

above, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspection of

all present. Its whole interior is apparently filled with wheels,

pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely

together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance

into the mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes

now round to the back of the box, and raising the drapery of the

figure, opens another door situated precisely in the rear of the

one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this door, and

shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same

time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard,

which is now clearly seen to be full, completely full, of

machinery. The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel

closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the lock, lets

fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The

door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The

exhibiter now proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the

cupboards at the bottom of the box—for although there are

apparently two drawers, there is really only one—the two handles

and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. Having

opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set

of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them

perpendicularly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as

cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now unlocks door No. 2, and door No.

3, which are discovered to be folding doors, opening into one and

the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, however,

(that is to say the spectators’ right) a small division, six

inches wide, and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The

main compartment itself (in speaking of that portion of the box

visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it the

main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and contains no

machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,

and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the

compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and

also covered with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the

compartment near the rear corner on the spectators’ left hand.

Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and

door No. I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main

compartment, and, unlocking another door there, displays clearly

all the interior of the main compartment, by introducing a candle

behind it and within it. The whole box being thus apparently

disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving

the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round,

and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A

door about ten inches square is thrown open in the loins of the

figure, and a smaller one also in the left thigh. The interior of

the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to be

crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now

thoroughly satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized,

at one and the same time, every individual portion of the

Automaton, and the idea of any person being concealed in the

interior, during so complete an exhibition of that interior, if

ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the

extreme.

M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original

position, now informs the company that the Automaton will play a

game of chess with any one disposed to encounter him. This

challenge being accepted, a small table is prepared for the

antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators’

side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from

obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this

table is taken a set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges them

generally, but not always, with his own hands, on the chess

board, which consists merely of the usual number of squares

painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the

exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom

the cushion, which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the

Automaton, he places under its left arm as a support. Then taking

also from the drawer the Automaton’s set of chess-men, he

arranges them upon the chessboard before the figure. He now

proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the bunch of

keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally,

winds up the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the

left end (the spectators’ left) of the box. The game now

commences—the Automaton taking the first move. The duration of

the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be not

finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist

still contend that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has

seldom any objection to continue it. Not to weary the company, is

the ostensible, and no doubt the real object of the limitation.

It Wits of course be understood that when a move is made at his

own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at

the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as

the representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the

Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the table of the

antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then acts as the

representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is necessary

that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other.

He also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the

chess-men which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,

on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board. When the

Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the exhibiter is

occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and

to lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box.

He has also a peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to

induce suspicion of collusion with the machine in minds which are

more cunning than sagacious. These peculiarities are, no doubt,

mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware of them at all,

he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the

spectators a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.

The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm

are at right angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved

and bent in a natural way,) being brought directly above the

piece to be moved, descends finally upon it, the fingers

receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,

however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation,

the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this

occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm continues its

movement in the direction originally intended, precisely as if

the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot

whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its

cushion, and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton

pointed out. At every movement of the figure machinery is heard

in motion. During the progress of the game, the figure now and

then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board, moves its head,

and pronounces the word _echec _(check) when necessary. {*3} If a

false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box

with the fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and

replacing the piece falsely moved, in its former situation,

assumes the next move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves

his head with an air of triumph, looks round complacently upon

the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than usual,

suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general,

the Turk is victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game

being ended, Maelzel will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism

of the box, in the same manner as before. The machine is then

rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view of the company.

There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the

Automaton. The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion

too not unfrequently adopted by men who should have known better,

was, as we have before said, that no immediate human agency was

employed—in other words, that the machine was purely a machine

and nothing else. Many, however maintained that the exhibiter

himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical means

operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke

confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall

say nothing at present more than we have already said. In

relation to the second it is only necessary to repeat what we

have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,

and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to

any portion of the room, even during the progress of a game. The

supposition of the magnet is also untenable—for if a magnet were

the agent, any other magnet in the pocket of a spectator would

disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter, however, will

suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box

during the whole of the exhibition.

The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at

least the first attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge,

was made in a large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The

author’s hypothesis amounted to this—that a dwarf actuated the

machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the

opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow

cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are not) among

the machinery in the cupboard No. I, while his body was out of

the box entirely, and covered by the drapery of the Turk. When

the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body

within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the

machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the

door by which he entered. The interior of the automaton being

then exhibited, and no person discovered, the spectators, says

the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within

any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too

obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and

accordingly we find that it attracted very little attention.

In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in

which another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr.

Freyhere’s book was a pretty large one, and copiously illustrated

by colored engravings. His supposition was that “a well-taught

boy very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he could

be concealed in a drawer almost immediately under the

chess-board”) played the game of chess and effected all the

evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly

than that of the Parisian author, met with a better reception,

and was in some measure believed to be the true solution of the

wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion by

suffering a close examination of the top of the box.

These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others

equally bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a

course of reasoning exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to

blunder upon a plausible solution—although we cannot consider it

altogether the true one. His Essay was first published in a

Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and was entitled

“An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M. Maelzel.”

This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the _pamphlet

to _which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural

Magic, and which he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and

satisfactory explanation. The _results _of the analysis are

undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only account for

Brewster’s pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory

explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very

cursory and inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay,

made use of in the Letters on Natural Magic, it is quite

impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in regard to the

adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross

misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference

employed. The same fault is to be found in the “Attempt &c.,” as

we originally saw it. The solution consists in a series of minute

explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many

pages) in which the object is to show the _possibility _of _so

shifting the partitions _of the box, as to allow a human being,

concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one

part of the box to another, during the exhibition of the

mechanism—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spectators. There can

be no doubt, as we have before observed, and as we will presently

endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the result, of

this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the

box during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object,

however, to the whole verbose description of the _manner _in

which the partitions are shifted, to accommodate the movements of

the person concealed. We object to it as a mere theory assumed in

the first place, and to which circumstances are afterwards made

to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been, arrived

at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is

managed, it is of course concealed at every step from

observation. To show that certain movements might possibly be

effected in a certain way, is very far from showing that they are

actually so effected. There may be an infinity of other methods

by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of the

one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity.

But, in reality, this particular point, the shifting of the

partitions, is of no consequence whatever. It was altogether

unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the purpose of

proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the

wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the

necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel,

with a human agent too at his service in actual contact with the

pannel or the door, and the whole operations carried on, as the

author of the Essay himself shows, and as we shall attempt to

show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the

observation of the spectators.

In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will,

in the first place, endeavor to show how its operations are

effected, and afterwards describe, as briefly as possible, the

nature of the _observations _from which we have deduced our

result.

It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject,

that we repeat here in a few words, the routine adopted by the

exhibiter in disclosing the interior of the box—a routine from

which he _never _deviates in any material particular. In the

first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he goes

round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the

back of door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle.

He then _closes the back door, _locks it, and, coming round to

the front, opens the drawer to its full extent. This done, he

opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and displays

the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main

compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he

now goes to the rear again, and throws open the back door of the

main compartment. In shutting up the box no particular order is

observed, except that the folding doors are always closed before

the drawer.

Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into

the presence of the spectators, a man is already within it. His

body is situated behind the dense machinery in cupboard No. T.

(the rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip

_en masse, _from the main compartment to the cupboard No. I, as

occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the

main compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man

within is not in any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye

cannot penetrate more than about two inches into the darkness

within. But the case is otherwise when the back door of the

cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the

cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were

there. But it is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back

door was a signal on hearing which the person concealed brought

his body forward to an angle as acute as possible—throwing it

altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment. This,

however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.

Accordingly we find that Maelzel _closes the back door. _This

being done, there is no reason why the body of the man may not

resume its former situation—for the cupboard is again so dark as

to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of the

person within drop down behind it in the space it formerly

occupied. {*4} There is, consequently, now no longer any part of

the man in the main compartment—his body being behind the

machinery in cupboard No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied

by the drawer. The exhibiter, therefore, finds himself at liberty

to display the main compartment. This he does—opening both its

back and front doors—and no person Is discovered. The spectators

are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to

view—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same

time. But of course this is not the case. They neither see the

space behind the drawer, nor the interior of cupboard No. 1—the

front door of which latter the exhibiter virtually shuts in

shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the machine

around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in

his back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,

brings the whole back into its original position, and closes the

doors. The man within is now at liberty to move about. He gets up

into the body of the Turk just so high as to bring his eyes above

the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he seats

himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is

seen in a corner of the main compartment when the doors are open.

In this position he sees the chess-board through the bosom of the

Turk which is of gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast

he actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the left arm

and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is situated just

beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily

reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his

right arm brought across the breast. The motions of the head and

eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as well as the sound

_echec _are produced by other mechanism in the interior, and

actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this

mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the

machine—is most probably contained within the little cupboard (of

about six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the

spectators’ right) of the main compartment.

In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have

purposely avoided any allusion to the manner in which the

partitions are shifted, and it will now be readily comprehended

that this point is a matter of no importance, since, by mechanism

within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be effected

in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,

however performed, it is performed out of the view of the

spectators. Our result is founded upon the following

_observations _taken during frequent visits to the exhibition of

Maelzel. {*5}

I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of

time, but accommodate themselves to the moves of the

antagonist—although this point (of regularity) so important in

all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have been readily

brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the

antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the

moves of the Automaton might be made at any given intervals

longer than three minutes. The fact then of irregularity, when

regularity might have been so easily attained, goes to prove that

regularity is unimportant to the action of the Automaton—in other

words, that the Automaton is not a pure machine.

When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion

is observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion

agitates in a slight degree, the drapery covering the front of

the left shoulder. This motion invariably precedes, by about two

seconds, the movement of the arm itself—and the arm never, in any

instance, moves without this preparatory motion in the shoulder.

Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding

move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the

Automaton. Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton,

until he detect the preparatory motion in the shoulder.

Immediately upon detecting this motion, and before the arm itself

begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an

error in his manœuvre. It will then be seen that the movement of

the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the

motion in the shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel

has not yet performed, on the board of the Automaton, any move

corresponding to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case,

that the Automaton was about to move is evident—and that he did

not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal of the

antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.

This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in

performing the moves of the antagonist on the board of the

Automaton, is not essential to the movements of the Automaton,

2—that its movements are regulated by _mind—_by some person who

sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements are not

regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards

the antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.

The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the

machine a pure machine this would not be the case—it would always

win. The _principle _being discovered by which a machine can be

made to _play _a game of chess, an extension of the same

principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would

enable it to win _all _games—that is, to beat any possible game

of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one

that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in

the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the

operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.

If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we must suppose,

(what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred leaving

it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more

absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would

afford an argument against the possibility of its being a pure

machine—the very argument we now adduce.

When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we

never perceive the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes.

It is only when his next move is obvious, or when the game is so

circumstanced that to a man in the Automaton’s place there would

be no necessity for reflection. Now these peculiar movements of

the head and eyes are movements customary with persons engaged in

meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted

these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to occasions

proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But

the reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies

precisely to our supposition of a man in the interior. When

engaged in meditation about the game he has no time to think of

setting in motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are

moved the head and the eyes. When the game, however, is obvious,

he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see the head

shake and the eyes roll.

When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an

examination of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is

lifted up and the doors in the trunk and thigh thrown open, the

interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In

scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in motion,

that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors,

it appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed

their shape and position in a degree too great to be accounted

for by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent

examinations convinced us that these undue alterations were

attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The

introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been

intended to influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their

operation, whatever that operation should prove to be, must

necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator. We at

once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply to

the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to

give it the appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the

direct inference from this is that the machine is not a pure

machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far from wishing its

mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for the purpose

of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous

of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the

_simplicity _of the means by which results so wonderful were

brought about.

The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of

the Turk, are, when we consider them as imitations of _life, _but

very indifferent imitations. The countenance evinces no

ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to the human

face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll

unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the

lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in

an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner.

Now, all this is the result either of inability in Maelzel to do

better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect being out of

the question, when we consider that the whole time of the

ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his

machines. Most assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like

appearances to inability—for all the rest of Maelzel’s automata

are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions and

peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The

rope-dancers, for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs,

his lips, his eyes, his eye-brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the

features of his countenance—are imbued with their appropriate

expressions. In both him and his companion, every gesture is so

entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality,

that, were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the

fact of their being passed from one spectator to another previous

to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to

convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden automata

were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr.

Maelzel’s ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he

intentionally suffered his Chess Player to remain the same

artificial and unnatural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt

also through design) originally made it. What this design was it

is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its

motions, the spectator would be more apt to attribute its

operations to their true cause, (that is, to human agency within)

than he is now, when the awkward and rectangular manœuvres convey

the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.

When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game,

the Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in

any degree accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a

system of machinery, will not fail to discover, instantaneously,

that the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-Player,

cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a spring, or

any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same

as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the

operations of the Automaton, and is performed with the design of

exciting in the spectators the false idea of mechanism.

When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—“Is the

Automaton a pure machine or not?” his reply is invariably the

same—“I will say nothing about it.” Now the notoriety of the

Automaton, and the great curiosity it has every where excited,

are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a

pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it

is the interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure

machine. And what more obvious, and more effectual method could

there be of impressing the spectators with this desired idea,

than a positive and explicit declaration to that effect? On the

other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could there be

of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton’s being a pure machine,

than by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will

naturally reason thus,—It is Maelzel’s interest to represent this

thing a pure machine—he refuses to do so, directly, in words,

although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious to do so,

indirectly by actions—were it actually what he wishes to

represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the

more direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a

consciousness of its not being a pure machine, is the reason of

his silence—his actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood—his

words may.

When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has

thrown open the door No. I, and also the door immediately behind

it, he holds a lighted candle at the back door (as mentioned

above) and moves the entire machine to and fro with a view of

convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely filled

with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be

apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of

the machinery near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and

unwavering, the portion farther within fluctuates, in a very

slight degree, with the movements of the machine. This

circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more

remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily

slipped, _en masse, _from its position when occasion should

require it. This occasion we have already stated to occur when

the man concealed within brings his body into an erect position

upon the closing of the back door.

Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the

size of life—but in fact it is far above the ordinary size.

Nothing is more easy than to err in our notions of magnitude. The

body of the Automaton is generally insulated, and, having no

means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we suffer

ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake

may, however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as

is sometimes the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel,

to be sure, is not very tall, but upon drawing near the machine,

his head will be found at least eighteen inches below the head of

the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered, is in a

sitting position.

The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely

three feet six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two

feet six inches high. These dimensions are fully sufficient for

the accommodation of a man very much above the common size—and

the main compartment alone is capable of holding any ordinary man

in the position we have mentioned as assumed by the person

concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may

prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon

them. We will only suggest that, although the top of the box is

apparently a board of about three inches in thickness, the

spectator may satisfy himself by stooping and looking up at it

when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality very

thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those

who examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about

three inches between the top of the drawer as seen from the

exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard—a space which must be

included in the height of the drawer. These contrivances to make

the room within the box appear less than it actually is, are

referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress

the company again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can

be accommodated within the box.

The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout with

_cloth. _This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A

portion of _it _may form, when tightly stretched, the only

partitions which there is any necessity for removing during the

changes of the man’s position, viz: the partition between the

rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,

and the partition between the main compartment, and the space

behind the drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case,

the difficulty of shifting the partitions vanishes at once, if

indeed any such difficulty could be supposed under any

circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to

deaden and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the

movements of the person within.

The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered

to play at the board of the Automaton, but is seated at some

distance from the machine. The reason which, most probably, would

be assigned for this circumstance, if the question were demanded,

is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person would

intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude

the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be

easily obviated, either by elevating the seats of the company, or

by turning the end of the box towards them during the game. The

true cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different. Were

the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret would

be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick

car, the breathings of the man concealed.

Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the

machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the _routine _which we

have pointed out, yet _reeler in _any instance does he _so

_deviate from it as to interfere with our solution. For example,

he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but he never

opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of

cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first

pulling out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first

shutting the main compartment—he never opens the back door of

cupboard No. 1 while the main compartment is open—and the game of

chess is never commenced until the whole machine is closed. Now

if it were observed that _never, in any single instance, _did M.

Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as necessary

to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible

arguments in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes

infinitely strengthened if we duly consider the circumstance that

he _does occasionally _deviate from the routine but never does

_so _deviate as to falsify the solution.

There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during

exhibition. The question naturally arises—“Why are so many

employed, when a single candle, or, at farthest, two, would have

been amply sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of

the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibition

room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine a _pure

machine, _there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed

any light at all, to enable _it _to perform its operations—and

when, especially, only a single candle is placed upon the table

of the antagonist?” The first and most obvious inference is, that

so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within to see

through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which

the breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the

arrangement of the candles, another reason immediately presents

itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in all.

Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those most remote

from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about

two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches

shorter still—and the candles on one side differ in height from

the candles respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio

different from two inches—that is to say, the longest candle on

one side is about three inches shorter than the longest candle on

the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the

candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of

ascertaining the _material _of the breast of the figure (against

which the light is especially directed) is greatly augmented by

the dazzling effect of the complicated crossings of the

rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the centres of

radiation all upon different levels.

While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen,

it was more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the

suite of the Baron was never visible during the playing of a game

at chess by the Turk, and, secondly, that the Italian being taken

seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recovery.

This Italian professed a _total _ignorance of the game of chess,

although all others of the suite played well. Similar

observations have been made since the Automaton has been

purchased by Maelzel. There is a man, _Schlumberoer, _who attends

him wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other

than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the

automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable

stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or

not, we are not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he

is never to be seen during the exhibition of the Chess-Player,

although frequently visible just before and just after the

exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond

with his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house

now occupied by M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. _Schlumberg_er

was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no

exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to

many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the suspension of

the Chess-Player’s performances, was _not _the illness of

_Schlumberger. _The inferences from all this we leave, without

farther comment, to the reader.

The Turk plays with his left arm. A circumstance so

remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it

whatever beyond a mere statement, we believe, that such is the

fact. The early writers of treatises on the Automaton, seem not

to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.

The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it,

but acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is

obviously from such prominent discrepancies or incongruities as

this that deductions are to be made (if made at all) which shall

lead us to the truth.

The circumstance of the Automaton’s playing with his left hand

cannot have connexion with the operations of the machine,

considered merely as such. Any mechanical arrangement which would

cause the figure to move, in any given manner, the left

arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the

right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human

organization, wherein there is a marked and radical difference in

the construction, and, at all events, in the powers, of the right

and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter fact, we naturally

refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this

peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine

some _reversion—_for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man

_would not. _These ideas, once entertained, are sufficient of

themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the interior. A few

more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The

Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other

circumstances could the man within play with his right—a

_desideratum _of course. Let us, for example, imagine the

Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery

which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie

just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man

within either to use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and

awkward position, (viz. brought up close to his body and tightly

compressed between his body and the side of the Automaton,) or

else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In neither

case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the

contrary, the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the

left arm, all difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man

within is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,

without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of the

figure.

We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged

against this solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.